Mace Duvall was a man who knew how to take care of himself, a man who protected others. She shuddered to think what might have happened without his intercession. Damn Morelli anyway. He was just out there looking for trouble and not caring who he dragged into it with him.
Still, the hullabaloo ended so quickly the bartender hadn’t even noticed. With the whole Lowell team gone, you’d never have known anything had been amiss. Of course, Mace’s celebrity status hadn’t hurt. She sat quietly while he slapped Leroy on the shoulder, bought drinks for the duo, and told a few baseball stories. Finally, Mace turned back to her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Now do you believe that he has a problem?”
“Your friend definitely knows what she’s talking about. I’ll talk to him in the morning before you folks head out. He’s going to be hurting, so I should be able to slap some sense into him.”
“Get it through his idiot skull that he could have gotten a lot of people hurt tonight, and not just himself.” She looked at him soberly. “I’m glad you were here.”
“Skill and talent,” he said modestly.
“It looked to me like all you needed was your famous face and your charm to win them over.”
“I don’t care about winning over Leroy and Dix. What I care about is what it takes to win you.” He looked at her.
The bartender pushed a couple of beers in front of them. “Compliments of the guys at the end of the bar.” They glanced down to where Dix and Leroy were talking with some buddies.
Becka pushed the beers back. “Oh, we’re leav—”
Mace cut her off. “Tell them thanks.” He saluted the group, who grinned and waved.
“I suppose we should drink it, huh?” she asked dubiously.
Mace shook his head and let his eyes linger on her. “Nope, as I recall, you’re still my date.” He took her hand.
Becka made a brief attempt to get her fingers loose, but met with no more success than Dix had. “I’m here, we’re out. As far as I’m concerned, I came through with my part of the deal.”
“Not even close. It’s barely eleven. We’ve spent the last half hour dealing with Morelli’s mess.” He picked up her hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles. “Now’s when we start our evening.”
The icy bottle of beer felt cool against her hand, and she tried to focus on that.
In the background, someone called Mace’s name over the intercom, and he released her fingers. “Looks like we’re up.”
“You got a table?”
“I figured it couldn’t hurt. As long as we’re here, we might as well shoot some stick.”
Made of dark, polished wood, their pool table sat in the corner near a wooden ledge stained with the rings from countless beers.
Mace set the tray of balls down on the table and went to select a cue stick. “Want me to get one for you?” he asked.
Becka set her purse and beer on the ledge and shrugged him off. “I can get my own, thanks.” Now that the adrenaline rush of the near-fight had abated, she was remembering her original plan to lure him along and then leave him wanting. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, fine. She’d teach him a lesson, give him a little something to remember on his way home. She walked over to choose a cue, conscious of the swish of her dress.
She stood holding the cue stick and took a drink of her beer, watching Mace pack the balls in the triangular rack and pull it off, leaving them arranged just so. Casually, she walked around to the far end of the table, rolling the cue ball along with her. She leaned over the table to form a bridge and take aim at the cue ball. Then she glanced up at Mace. “Stripes and solids?”
“Whatever you like.” The vivid light from the bare bulb above the table shadowed her eyes and made her cheekbones look exotically sharp. Her hair swung down over her cheeks in two glossy arcs. From his angle, he could see the smooth scoop of her neckline and the shadowed cleft of her cleavage as she stroked the cue to get the feel of it. Then, she slammed the cue ball to crack into the triangle of balls, sending them ricocheting around the table.
She straightened and shot him a challenging stare.
“I see you’ve played a little pool,” he said, pacing around the table to check out his shots, but never taking his eyes from her for more than a moment. This was a very different woman from the one he encountered in the locker room. There was a confidence to her, almost an arrogance, one that demanded attention, admiration.
Becka picked up a blue cube of chalk and spun it on the tip of her cue. “My dad has a table in the basement. It’s all we used to do in the summers when I was growing up. ’Course, I’m a little rusty now.” She took a quick swig of her beer and watched as Mace sent a ball just brushing the edge of the pocket, then bouncing softly back into the center of the table. Slowly she circled the table, passing close behind him, close enough that she knew he could smell her scent. Then she doubled back and put her hand against his hip. “I just need you to move aside,” she murmured, then leaned over to take her shot, putting in the two and the five in quick succession.
“I guess that makes you solids.”
“I guess it does,” Becka murmured, enjoying her effect on him as she set up to shoot. Then he lifted up his bottle to drink, his throat moving as he swallowed. Her mind flashed abruptly on how it had felt to kiss him there the day they’d been on her bed, the visceral memory running through her as she stroked the cue. Her ball went nowhere near the pocket.
Mace put down the beer and drifted around the table casually checking out his shots. Dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, he looked lean and powerful. No wonder Dix had backed off. When Mace leaned over the table to put the ten ball in, she found herself watching the muscles flex in his arms. The memory of having those powerful tendons and sinews moving under her fingers was impossible to dispel.
“Your shot.”
“Huh?” Becka blinked.
“It’s your shot.” He took a long swallow of his beer, his eyes on her. “I scratched.”
“Right.” To buy herself time, she chalked her cue. It wouldn’t do to forget why she was here. She was supposed to be the one seducing him, not vice versa. She pulled out the cue ball and set it on the green felt, lining it up perfectly to put the one ball in the pocket. One practice stroke and then she tapped it in, adding just enough backspin to keep the cue ball from rolling into the pocket after it.
“Nice finesse.”
Even though she’d been hearing it for days, that warm molasses drawl still got to her, stirring something around in the pit of her stomach. Becka gave him a long, steady look, then stretched out over the table toward him for an intentionally difficult shot, putting in the seven ball. Her next shot went wide, but she’d already had the satisfaction of watching Mace’s eyes darken. As long as she could keep him off balance, she’d win the game.
She swallowed, suddenly thirsty. When she crossed to the ledge to pick up her beer, two more were sitting alongside. “Where’d those come from?”
Mace nodded toward the bar. “From our buddies.”
Becka picked up a bottle and toasted to Dix and Leroy and they waved back. “This’ll probably turn into some legendary story, you know.”
He eyed her. “Why not? It seems like a legendary night. Toss me the chalk, will you?” He caught the blue cube as it arced toward him and he chalked the tip of his cue. He prowled around the table, searching for the perfect shot. She watched his strong, capable hands slide over the polished wood of the cue and couldn’t help imagining that touch on her skin.
Mace managed to put two balls in but muffed the third shot, an easy one. He cursed himself for sloppy play. Even if it was just for fun, he had an athlete’s dislike of losing. He watched as Becka put in the six ball and then the three, setting herself up perfectly for the four.
There was an almost feline sensuality to her, with those cat eyes and that smooth way of moving. She stretched across the table toward him, her eyes slanted and exotic, her breasts covered only in shadow, and gave him a long
, lazy, inviting look. There was something he didn’t quite trust there, even as he was drawn to it.
She put her last ball in and circled the table, brushing his back with her body as she passed. He’d given away practically the whole game because he was too busy watching her. He’d played like an amateur, he thought.
And then a wicked thought popped into his mind.
“Eight ball in the corner pocket,” Becka said. Unfortunately, she put a bit too much force on the cue ball and sent the eight ball caroming off the pads.
Mace lined up a shot carefully, making it look like it barely made it into the pocket. He deliberately missed the next one, giving the ball back to Becka so she could put in the eight ball and win the game.
“To the pool shark.” He clinked bottles with her, then tilted his up for a long drink. “You’re definitely a better player than I am, but I usually don’t stink as badly as this. I think I need a goal.” He glanced at the table. “I think we ought to make a little bet on the next game.”
“I don’t play for money, Duvall.” She leaned back against the little shelf, resting her elbows on the edge.
He rested his palm on the wall beside her head. “No money. Something better.” He took another swallow of beer and set the bottle down. “You win, the evening’s over and I never bother you again.” He traced a finger along her jawbone and up to her lips. “I win, we go to bed.”
She opened her mouth with the express intention of telling him to go to hell, but stopped before the words got out. It was the perfect setup, she realized. He was basically offering her a chance to reel him in, to get him turned on and thinking he had her, then take the game from him and show him who was really in control. He’d been pushing for it since he’d arrived. He was asking for it now, walking right into it. And wouldn’t it be sweet to teach him a lesson? What would the great Mace Duvall have to say about that when he was all hot and bothered at the end of the night?
“Well, what do you think?”
Her answer was a slow, smoky-eyed smile. “Mmm, I think that’s a bet I can live with.”
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers for a lingering kiss. The pool hall receded. Mace broke away first and gave her a wolfish grin. “That’s a deposit,” he said.
Becka began pulling balls out of the pockets and racking them, mostly to give herself time to recover from the jolt of his kiss. “Nine ball?” At his nod, she arranged the balls in a tight diamond shape. She’d do well to remember what his mouth could do to her, pumping up her adrenaline, muddying her thinking, shooting her coordination all to hell. Skirt around the edge of danger but don’t step in, that was the thing to keep in mind. “I’ll even let you break,” she said. “Balls go in from lowest to highest. Player to pocket the nine ball wins.”
Mace walked behind her, sliding a hand down her hip and she jolted. The heat lingered even after he was down at the other end of the table, looking up at her with those predator eyes. He leaned over the table, looking sexy, capable, and just a bit dangerous.
And suddenly Becka realized she’d made a very big mistake. “Wait,” she blurted, just as the cue ball cracked into the balls, scattering them around the table and sending the one ball into the side pocket.
One corner of Mace’s mouth turned up in an insolent smile. “Guess I’m still playing.” He strolled around the table and put in the two.
Becka walked over to lift her beer with suddenly shaky hands, taking a drink to calm herself. Remember the plan. The important thing was to remember the plan. Taking a deep breath, she walked slowly over to the table across from where Mace was lining up a shot. She rolled the bottle against her cheeks so that the icy condensation rubbed off. Locking eyes with him, she slowly, deliberately stroked the water down her neck and into the shallow valley of her cleavage, then sucked the tip of her finger.
His next shot went wide.
Becka threw him a cool smile and swaggered to the far end of the table, sliding her hand idly up and down the cue stick as she studied the layout of the balls. Finally, she bent down, stroked the cue a few times, and neatly put in the three ball. She was lining up her next shot with the four when Mace walked behind her and leaned in.
“I love watching you bend over the table like that. It makes me think what it’s going to be like to have you naked and on top of me when I’m inside you.”
Her pulse jittered. She wanted to be offended, but the soft, drawling words just started a molten flow of desire deep inside of her. Her next shot was just a bit too aggressive and the ball bounced off the cushion instead of going in.
He tsked at her. “Control is everything, Florence, you should know that.” Quickly, efficiently, he sank the four ball. The five ball was going to be harder, he thought, prowling around the table looking for the right angle. He glanced up to see Becka wander over with her beer. Her mouth curved, then she licked the rim of the bottle neck. It was like a punch to his gut, seeing that lush mouth slide around the tip of the glass column as she tilted the bottle up. He watched, riveted, as she drank with indolent enjoyment, then lowered the bottle. She lingered even then, rubbing her lips against the glass to capture any stray drops, staring at him with dark-eyed invitation.
“Are you still shooting?” she asked in a bored voice.
What ball was he on, Mace wondered blankly, then remembered. Still, his attempt at the five ball failed miserably and gave Becka the shot.
She stepped forward, studying the balls on the table. With swift decisiveness, she put in the five. Just a few more balls and she’d have the game won, she noted with glee. Run him up and shut him down. She focused on her shot for the six ball.
“Game’s almost over,” Mace whispered in her ear. She turned to find him too close to her, his eyes dark gold and intent. He traced a fingertip down her arm, leaving nerve endings shivering in its wake.
She scratched on her next shot, giving Mace the ball. He put in the six easily, and the seven just as quickly. She needed to get her turn back, Becka thought with a little thrill of alarm, or she was going to lose the game.
Casually, she pulled a barstool over by the pocket he was shooting toward and sat down on it, crossing one sleek leg over the other in a lazy move. She pretended to rub an itchy spot on her knee, then stroked her fingers slowly up her leg, sliding the silk skirt even higher.
Mace narrowed his eyes and straightened up. “Do you mind?”
“What?”
“Can you move so that you’re not behind the pocket?”
She gave him a pouty look. “I’m four feet away, which is practically regulation playing distance. It’s not my fault if you can’t concentrate.”
He shot toward the pocket but the ball carried so little momentum that it stopped on the rim of the pocket. He rounded the table toward her as she gave a low laugh of pleasure.
“It’s not nice to laugh at your lover,” he murmured into her ear.
“You’re not my lover,” she said, turning her head to him. It was a mistake. Her mouth brushed his. He took the kiss deeper, tangling his fingers in her hair and tasting her until he satisfied himself and felt her mouth soften.
“I will be,” he said softly. “You know that. You’re already wondering what it will be like, aren’t you?”
For long seconds after he stepped away, she stayed absolutely still, then rose to circle the table. She did it twice. Almost, he mused, as though she couldn’t quite concentrate. Her hand shook as she made a bridge with her fingers, then she took a deep breath and snapped the eight ball toward the pocket. It didn’t quite make its destination.
Mace stepped forward, the taste of incipient victory sweet in his mouth. “Oh, you almost had it, you know,” he said conversationally as he put in the eight ball. “Looks to me like maybe you want me to win. All I’ve got to do is knock in the nine ball.”
Becka took a swallow of her beer and walked past, brushing her body against him, trailing her fingers across his back and hip. Mace stood stock-still for a second, struggling to contr
ol what had suddenly transformed into a raging hard-on. The firm, yielding flesh that had brushed against his arm only made him think of having her breasts in his hands, of having her under him hot and wanton.
She gave him a sly glance and sat on the bar stool, flicking her skirt to offer him a tantalizing glimpse of black lace. Then she did her best to still her nerves. All she needed was for him to miss and the game was hers.
“So what were the terms of the bet again?” Mace asked as he walked slowly over to line up his shot. “You win, I don’t even go near you.” He took a test stroke. “I win, we go to bed.”
Becka stared at the cue, willing him to miss.
“Well,” he said, turning to look at her, “it looks like I’d better win.”
With a sharp, decisive crack, he slammed the nine ball into the pocket. Becka made a small involuntary sound of distress. Mace straightened up slowly, staring at her across the table. He put his cue in the rack and looked at her with relish.
“Your room or mine?”
10
SHE’D LET HERSELF get hustled, pure and simple, Becka fumed as she walked toward the hotel with Mace. She’d watched him play sloppily in the first game and had assumed that she could distract him into playing poorly and beat him, sending him off disappointed. Instead, she’d fallen for the oldest pool hustling trick in the book. And maybe the hardest thing to admit was that deep down, a little part of her wasn’t really that upset that she’d lost.
In fact, a little part of her wasn’t upset at all.
She stepped off the curb to cross the street and bobbled a bit.
“Careful.” Mace curled his fingers under her elbow to steady her. “Those beers getting to you?”
“I’m perfectly sober,” she said.
“I’m sure you are.” He slid his hand down her arm to capture her fingers with a disconcerting heat.
Scoring Page 10